


our hearts, burn out

by moonymindpalace



Series: our hearts (nct civil war au) [3]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - War, And really dangerous things out of trauma, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Renjun is no longer ethereal and no longer a sniper but has the best lines, They all do amazing things out of love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 07:11:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonymindpalace/pseuds/moonymindpalace
Summary: They were all children of war and knew nothing of peace, nothing of how to live in a world that had no guns for them to hide behind.





	our hearts, burn out

**Author's Note:**

> This was... a hell of a ride. All the love to Marina, as usual, who suffered a lot for Jisung.  
> Thank you all for reading!

They were all children of war, and blood looked black instead of red in the dark. Chenle patched up cuts and bullet wounds, heard Kun's voice in his head pacing him through it. They were all children of war and knew nothing of peace, nothing of how to live in a world that had no guns for them to hide behind.

*

Taeyong blew up the government house and went down with it, was buried like a war hero. Jaehyun was there to give a speech, as dashingly handsome as ever. Jisung was twenty-one and carrying his only brother’s coffin wasn’t supposed to be that easy for him.

*

Donghyuk’s twenty-fourth birthday was on a garden party with Mark beaming at him over a glazed cake. Not even six months prior Donghyuk had fallen over in the middle of a march, body too weak to move. He hadn’t eaten at all for days, and Mark bodily carried him to their safe house.

They had no right to party, with so many of their people still fresh in their graves, but Jisung had insisted. Donghyuk got sick from all the sugar on the cake, and Mark bodily carried him back home.

*

Peace was a lie and Renjun knew it too, it was written behind his eyes when he looked at Jaemin walking out to the kitchen to make tea and Jeno watched him. Jeno had known school and war, scratched desks, powdery walls, fistfights and fire. What was he supposed to do?

They had walked out, all things considered, unscathed, Jeno with a star-shaped scar on his shoulder, Jaemin with a white line across his face, Renjun without the pinkie on his left hand, and it made no difference for all Renjun needed was his trigger finger. They’d visit Chenle and watch over Jisung and go to sleep at night with eyes glued to each other, searching.

Jeno finally feared nothing. Peace was a lie built on the blood of a thousand and cemented with trench mud. He knew all about trenches, for they were all Jaemin and Renjun dreamed about at night.

*

Jaemin was twenty-four.

He dreamt of explosions and hands holding his face, of pale faces disappearing in the quicksand.

*

Donghyuk used to, when he was still Haechan, sing while they walked. He still sang while making their bed, his high-pitched voice traveled through the house and merged with the smell of the grass in the garden, the warmth of the heater. In the dark, he sang old hymns, a strange habit, because Donghyuk wasn’t raised religious. He wasn’t raised, at all, just left to his own deep in the sewers of the city.

They moved to a town because Donghyuk hated the city, but he seemed to hate the parks and the neighbours all the same. Mark, craving for a home after so many years, could not understand why.

I love you, said Donghyuk, but I don’t know how to live like this.

*

What am I supposed to do, he asked Chenle on a beautiful afternoon, the both of them bent over steaming noodles. Chenle, as the good kid he was, looked Renjun in the eye and shrugged. Always reckoned you’re different from the rest of us, you’d know what to do now, Renjun said.

Chenle laughed, low and bitter.

*

Mark came back from checking on Jisung, and Donghyuk had made fried rice. Do you remember when that old lady gave us some rice in a can and we fought over the last spoonful 'cos I wanted to give it to you and you wanted to give it to me?, he asked, and across the table, Donghyuk’s face froze.

I try not to, he said.

Taeyong used to tell Mark all the time: people are different in many ways, some want to remember and make sense, some want to forget and be forgiven. Mark didn’t want to forget, but he, too, wanted to be forgiven.

He stood up and pulled Donghyuk close, kissed him in the mouth, asked for his forgiveness the only way he knew. And Donghyuk didn’t say anything but didn’t seem to forget how to undo him.

*

Jaemin used to wonder what the world would look like when peace came and had no illusions of ever seeing it with his own eyes.

The world turned out to be a flat in the middle of town, a bed that creaked too much and watery tea. He kneeled on the mattress between Renjun’s legs and kissed him on the forehead. Wondered what the world would look like when forgiveness came and had no illusions of ever seeing it with his own eyes.

*

Peace, Jeno finally understood, was heartbreak. The winter was still too cold, the poor were still hungry, and the dead weren’t coming back. They were a people with broken hearts and sore spots from too many punches, hacking lungs from being raised with not enough food and too much work.

The first snow came and Renjun, of all people, caught pneumonia. A doctor came, not Kun or Doyoung, but an older man with a grave smile, and ordered him bed rest and pills. They spent Christmas slurping chicken broth in bed, holding hands. Jeno vowed to make them new memories, and as usual, Renjun and Jaemin only hummed, silently berating him for his lack of perspective.

*

There was a knock on the door and Donghyuk walked out to find Renjun, underdressed and shaking. He cried out, dragged Renjun inside, stressed about his health, about what the hell did you walk here, you have _pneumonia_ , are you crazy?

Do you know how many people I killed?, Renjun asked, do you know I’m twenty-four and I’ve lost count of how many people I killed when I was nineteen? How do you live with this? How do you live in this word?

I don’t, Donghyuk said. He held Renjun’s face until they were staring at each other dead in the eye. Two killers. Two hopeless men. I _survive_ , he said, I wait, until one day, maybe, I’ll learn how to live again.

*

It’s okay if you, like, hear voices or somethin', Ten said with that nice smile of his, doesn’t mean you’re going mental, it’s just the shock.

Jisung wasn’t hearing voices, but he was seeing things. People. Long gone and frozen under the earth, they came and went, spoke to him, greeted him on the streets, wished him a happy birthday. He supposed it was better than never seeing them ever again.

*

Chenle had permission to leave the school grounds and go help take care of his brother. It was spring, and the people were planting cherry blossom trees, hoping to begin anew. Renjun was a little better, and they sat on the balcony all afternoon, basking in the sun like cats.

When Renjun lost his finger, it hadn’t been blown right off, just damaged, but it infected and Doyoung had to come forward to cut it off. Jaemin offered to hold Renjun’s head so he wouldn’t look, but he said no. Chenle, out of obligation and also because Doyoung ordered him to, had to look. It was the end of the war, they didn’t know if they would win. They had no anaesthetics. The screams would haunt Chenle forever.

*

One day, Jisung left to visit Mark and Donghyuk but instead of turning right and going up the hill, he turned left and went down the road. The town was big enough for people not to notice him, and he walked and walked until his feet bled and his pristine schoolboy shoes were ruined, until he saw a pile of rumble in the east. His bare feet walked what used to be the main street of his village and took him around the turns that didn’t even exist anymore. His hands caressed the ashes and the splinters, his palms were cut when he reached for a piece of wood that used to be the kitchen's table of his parents’ house. He feared nothing, because the dead were with him again, and he had all his knives sheathed on his belt and under his shirt.

Taeyong sat down beside their mum on a loose rock, his big boots disturbing the dirt and splashing mud on her square-heeled shoes. They laughed. Jisung tilted his head to the side and wondered when he’d become a ghost as well. He carved all their names on the half-burnt wood of the table and set off to walk back to school.

*

He wrapped Mark in as many scarves and coats as he could and kissed him on the cheek, sent him off to work and school every day with a smile. Donghyuk didn’t go to school and didn’t look for a job. It was hard enough for him to wake up every day and open his eyes, let alone something else. He messed with the back garden and grew produce because it was something with no memories attached, no war, no city. He didn’t sell it. Instead, he exchanged it with people, not their neighbours, pompous and sniffling neighbours in their big houses, instead, he exchanged with the workers downtown, took in their smiles and their bags of rice, bars of soap, a lantern for Mark’s bike.

Mark, ever clueless Mark, just kissed him back and smiled brighter than he ever had before. Donghyuk knew they were lying to each other. He missed the weight of a knife on his hand and the kick of a pistol when it fired. Mark did, too.

*

Fear, Jeno realized, was a simple name to replace the swirling thoughts and feelings inside someone’s head. Everything was taking an extreme clarity in his mind and there was no space left for vertigo. As clear as the March morning of Renjun’s birthday, as Jaemin’s eyes, as the bottle of liquor under his desk.

He missed the fear and replaced its swirling with one of another kind.

*

Nana, please, come inside, said Jeno for the millionth time, seriously Nana, you’ll catch a cold out there in the rain, come on.

Quit trying to handle me, Jaemin said without turning back. I ain’t a wild animal or something, leave me alone.

I’m not _handling_ you, Nana, Jeno said with that age-old finality of believing he was right.

Listen to yourself, you always say my name a lot when you do this, call me Nana. Not even Renjun calls me Nana. I’m not going back inside.

He waited for Jeno to insist, to let out a string of reasonings and half-truths. Jaemin was tired. But Jeno kept his silence for a while and only spoke when the rain had already stopped.

I don’t know what to do when you cry, I’m always the crybaby. And I’d never seen Injunnie cry. I’m terrified, Jaemin, so help me out a bit here.

Jaemin looked back, past Jeno and the door, to the floor covered in glass shards from his and Renjun’s fight earlier that day. He couldn’t quite remember what the fight was about, only the searing rage and the noise.

*

He got home in time for lunch, but went straight to the living room, sat down on the couch and closed his eyes. Distantly, Mark heard Donghyuk calling him, asking if he was hungry. I’m not, he said, because he hadn’t been for a while.

When’s it?, asked Donghyuk, and Mark looked at him, puzzled. When are you doing that thing you burst and try to ruin my life? You know, like back when you found out I was a spy, and I figured you knew not when you broke my nose, it was 'cos you slapped my hand away when Jisung first came. And when you thought I was a traitor, before you stopped sleeping with me, you spoke to me without looking at me in the face. Now is the same, innit? You’re not eating my food. Are you going to run off or punch me, this time?

Mark stood up and reached for him, but Donghyuk slapped him away.

I’m not gonna do anything, come here, Mark said.

Quit being a coward apologizing with sex just 'cos you know I like attention, use your fucking words.

Mark sat down, and his leg started to bounce right away. He wanted to hide, but his hair was too short.

I’m about to turn twenty-six, he said, burying his head in his hands. I’ll be twenty-six and I don’t know what to do with my life, or what _is_ my life, actually. He looked up at Donghyuk’s face, as impassive as ever. Sometimes he forgot he was living with someone trained to be a spy.

I know I love you, he said, and Donghyuk’s eyes changed. Mark had always been fond of his eyes, even with everyone around him falling head over heels for Renjun’s Tragic Hero eyes, Donghyuk’s were always his favourite. I like your eyes, he confessed, but suppose I never told you that. I like your voice, and how you tilt your chin up to talk to Johnny 'cos you’re self-conscious about your height. That thing you do with your hand and cover your mouth when you think I’m talking nonsense but don’t want to interrupt me. I like you a lot, but I don’t know what you want from me.

Donghyuk was glassy eyed. Maybe all he wanted from Mark was, in fact, words.

I swear, I swear I’ll use my words, Mark said. I swear I’ll use them for you.

*

Renjun supposed the reason he loved Jaemin and Jeno both, was because they’d have each other once Renjun died, like the soldier he was. Soldiers were pieces on a board game, to be put and used, to disappear eventually when their owners moved or left. He didn’t know why he was still alive.

He remembered Jeno said, once, that he only knew school and war. It made Renjun think about Donghyuk, who only knew misery and war. He didn’t know how he was still alive.

*

Donghyuk was with Renjun on the back garden when Mark came downstairs. Renjun was talking loud enough for Mark to hear, and Donghyuk was looking intently at him.

They made Mark miss Johnny, now on the other side of the country with Ten, and Taeyong, on that terrified way you only miss the dead.

He was practically screaming at me, you know, Renjun was saying, for going outside like that, and he flat out asked me: Boy, do you want to die? And the thing is, I sorta wanted, and… jeez Hyuck, I’m sorry.

Mark’s heart was hammering and his breath was short, but Donghyuk smile was honey like his skin and gentle like his eyes.

It’s alright, he said. You spent so much of your life being ready to die that you just don’t know how to be ready to live.

They stayed silent for a bit, but Mark wanted to scream, reach for them before they, too, left him behind.

You think we'll ever be alright?, asked Renjun, and Donghyuk shook his head, going back to his plants.

Fuck me if I know, he said, forever sassy.

No thanks, I'm already doing two people, and your boy is the best close-range shooter alive, said Renjun, and they both laughed, and Mark stayed inside, remembering how to breathe, remembering how to live.

Your boy, Renjun had said. Donghyuk didn’t even react.  Mark missed his mother. He was twenty-six, and there’d been fifteen years since he’d last saw her.

He realizes he has to remember how to live, even if it’s just to make Donghyuk remember as well.

*

When did you fall in love with me?, Jeno was asking Renjun, bent over the table and clutching a glass of liquor. Jaemin observed them from around the corner, hidden in the shadows of the living room.

I didn’t, Renjun said, I always loved you, both of you, it’s like breathing or walking.

Is it? Jeno asked, and Renjun’s eyes were hidden by his hair, but his mouth was visible and Jaemin could read the confusion on his face. Still is? Jeno asked, because you look miserable all the time and I thought it was my fault.

Still is and will always be. One day I’ll remember how to live, and you’ll stop drinking so much, and Jaemin won’t be so angry. ‘Til that day I’ll love you, and from that day forward I’ll love you as well. Renjun reached forward and took the glass, finished the liquor in one go. One day we’ll walk on a road and just be, like we never did, he said.

Jaemin breathes in and out, slowly. Right now, he isn’t angry.

*

The new flat was bigger and Renjun started filling it with books. They were all over the living room and the bedroom, like witnesses to every single one of Jeno’s mistakes, and because they rankled him he started reading them, and sometimes Jaemin would come home to find them both reading in separate rooms, completely silent.

Because the silence rankled Jaemin, he started reading them as well. They would read for hours and meet by chance in the kitchen. It was like meeting each other anew, no past, no future. Just worlds made of words.

Jeno meets Renjun on a Tuesday after finishing a trilogy and their hands brush when they both reach for a famous mystery anthology, a smile ripping his face apart while he lets Renjun take the book. He meets Jaemin one afternoon, sorta groggy after waking up late. Their eyes meet over their lunches and their books, and Jaemin is shy glances and gentle smiles, so Jeno smiles back. They go out on a date and walk on a road around the rice fields.

They are.

*

They were all children of war, and Donghyuk was tired of fighting. He finished cutting the ingredients for the next day’s lunch and put them away, went back to the living to talk to Mark, but found him laying belly up on the sofa with a book from the boys’ library sheltering his eyes from the light, sleeping away, so different but still so like the scrawny boy with eyes full of fire Donghyuk had fallen in love with.

He remembered, in what felt like a past life but also yesterday, laying down and not being able to sleep because love was eating him from the inside, like a knife stabbed in his guts and needles in his eyes, remembered wanting but holding back, afraid to hurt Mark, because he had been a lie and a fraud back then.

Turning off the lights and leaving just the fireplace to light his way, he carefully picked up the book and stuck a random piece of paper in it to mark the page, then laid himself down on top of Mark.

He wanted to forget and be forgiven, but he knew he had to remember what he was being forgiven for.

Mark squints one eye open and smiles at him, that awkward childish smile he has. Donghyuk kisses him on the cheek, wraps his own hand around his wrist. Love is like muscle memory, and he doesn’t want to forget it.

*

Remember when we first met, Chenle asked him, on that road Renjun hated? We camped, and I sat you down to clean the cuts you had on your leg, and you thought I was using magic because it didn’t hurt?

Jisung understood what Chenle was trying to say.

Remember when you thought you had lost everything but still found us?

Remember when you were hurt and alone but still trusted me to help you?

Remember when you saw magic underneath the simplest things?

Jisung tries to remember. It hurts, now. But it’s better than forget and be forgotten.

*

Chenle washed his hands and his face and walked to the kitchen. Jisung was sitting there and obediently took the meds Chenle gave him. The street was quiet, and he could hear the hustle of the wind on the cherry blossom trees outside.

The war had taken a toll on all of them. But they were young.

They are alive.

**Author's Note:**

> They are alive.


End file.
